


The Blood that Binds Us

by endeni



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blanket Permission, Cover Art, Father-Daughter Relationship, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Minor Character Death, Podfic Welcome, Sane Peter Hale, The Argent Family, Wordcount: Over 10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-09-26 13:13:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9898697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endeni/pseuds/endeni
Summary: An AU in which Chris Argent found out about Kate’s plans to kill the Hales.





	1. THE HUNTER

**Author's Note:**

> Not betaed, so feel free to point out any issues. ;)

 

Chris hits the brakes, gets out of the car. He takes a few shaky steps, then comes to a halt in front of the burning house, the heat of the flames scalding his skin.

The forest is silent, only the crackle of fire can be heard, no one is screaming anymore.

And the air… it smells eerily of roasted pork. Chris’ brain registers the fact just as his stomach reminds him he hasn't eaten since morning.

Then, Chris realizes what that smell means.

 

* * *

 

Kate must have heard his retching noises because she turns her head toward him.

Against the bright light of the flames, she's just a silhouette of long, flowing hair. Chris can imagine her sweet, deranged smile, hidden in the shadows.

" _Oops_ , I didn't mean for you to be present for this, brother mine," she says. "I know how squeamish you are about getting your hands dirty. But don't worry, I took care of everything already."

A few steps and she's in front of him, her head tilted to the side, until he can actually see the smile still stretching her lips.

"But maybe it's for the best,” she says. “We're in this together now. Just like when we were children."

Chris makes himself look away from her. “I'm sorry I let you feel you were alone,” he says, his voice hoarse.

He bends forward then, slowly, taking her thin frame into a hug.

No guns for her. She’d notice.

He brings a hand to his waistband, takes out his pocketknife. With a swift movement, he slices open her throat.

Her hands fly to her neck, frantically trying to put pressure on the wound.

Blood spills everywhere: on their hands, their clothes, their faces and hair. Chris holds her as she falls down. He can taste the coppery tang of blood against his own lips.

Kate takes a wheezing, pained breath, her eyes wild with panic. And then another one, and then one more, in a slow, terrible ordeal, until her eyes grow dull and lifeless.

Chris closes his eyes and only then he gives his hands permission to shake.

He presses a kiss against her soiled hair, murmuring the words against her hair, both damnation and absolution: "Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent."

 

* * *

 

Chris is sitting by Peter Hale’s bed. They’re never been particular friends when the man was… well, awake. And healthy.

Chris had know _of_ him, of course. Seen him around town. Talia Hale’s brother, with his smart mouth and vicious smirk.

He hopes the man will forgive him the intrusion now. Now that they’re the only ones to be left in Beacon Hills.

Laura and Derek Hale took off a few days before Chris’ own family did. Chris’ heart constricts at the thought of Victoria taking little Allison with her. Victoria, the wife Gerald thought would have been perfect for him. The perfect leader.

Chris took care to hide Kate’s body before the police cars came wailing, Gerald doesn't have proofs.

He doesn't need them anyway. His favorite child is dead. Sooner or later, someone will have to pay.

So Chris sits there, on a hard chair in a room in the town hospital, looking at the burned face of Peter Hale. Two soldiers fighting within the same war. It makes them almost comrades.

Beside, it's his own fault the man’s been reduced like this, his fault most of his family is dead.

He should have noticed, should have done something sooner.

The code, for too many of them it has become a mantle under which hide all kinds of sin.

His own sister, becoming one of those monsters Chris is supposed to protect people from.

Chris looks into Peter Hale’s wreaked face and finds they’re really not all that different. Chris is just wearing his damage inside.


	2. THE WOLF

Peter sleeps and dreams of a world on fire, the screams of his family echoing in his ears.

Then, he wakes up and finds himself still trapped inside a nightmare.

His eyes are open but he's unable to move, to talk, confined inside his own scarred, disfigured body, quietly going insane.

For the first time in his life, Peter is utterly alone inside his head. The place in his mind where his pack is supposed to be… it’s devastatingly empty.

It’s what being an Omega must feel like, Peter thinks. What being a _human_ must be like. Living on, day after day, trapped inside your own skin, all that desperate, terrifying loneliness, never knowing what it’s like to be part of something more.

But Peter knows.

He had a family once, he had a _pack._ And they’ve been taken away from him.

So Peter waits. For his body to heal, his abilities to recover.

 _Soon_ , he whispers to the howling in his head, _soon_ _I will give you justice._

 

* * *

 

Peter runs, his naked feet hitting the grass, his body once again one with the forest.

He finds them, it’s not hard. Traitors, assassins. They helped her. He tears them apart, limb from limb.

In his ears, the voices howl their approval.

 _More_ , they ask, but there are no more, the woman is the only one left and she’s disappeared long ago.

Dead, some say. Killed.

Peter must know, he must make sure.

He finds himself retracing his steps, going back to where it all began. What remains of the house still retains the acrid smell of smoke. And, yes, there’s a woman there and Peter can recognize her scent even if he can't believe what he's seeing.

“Uncle Peter”, she says as she raises her palms toward him, her eyes tinted with red, “it was you.”

His pack, Peter thinks. His _Alpha_.

He thought they were all dead, all murdered.

But he was wrong. They hadn't been taken from him, they left him, _she_ left him.

To die, to go insane with grief.

She didn’t care.

A heartbeat, two, and Peter finds himself kneeling on the ground. He’s looking down at his niece’s mutilated body, the power of the Alpha surging through his veins.

He can feel the scars on his face healing, the evidence of the brief fight he must have had with Laura disappearing already.

But the voices, they're still screaming.

Peter closes his eyes and turns away from them, seeking refuge in the earthy smell of the ground under his pawns. Losing the sharp edges of his human mind, becoming one with the wolf.

The moon is out and he howls.

 

* * *

 

After, there are only flashes of images.

Biting the boy, Scott.

Finding out Derek, who’s the only family Peter has left.

But Peter Hale is gone now. There's only the wolf and he’s hungry.

I will show them, the wolf thinks, what is really like being part of a pack.

_They will come to me._

***

Once again, the wolf finds himself back to the burned-down remains of his old family house.

The boys are here, their friends too.

He lunges forward, trying to grab them, make them his.

Suddenly, the wolf hears the soft click of a gun being armed.

He turns toward the noise.

 _Hunter_ , his brain screams, but the weapon is aimed at the ground, the hunter’s arm rigid with tension.

“She's dead, Peter,” the man says, his voice rough, and he smells like hunter but also like the grief the wolf- the grief Peter himself wears.

It shocks him into stillness.

“I killed her myself,” the man continues and the wolf that is Peter can't help baring his fangs in response, his black body going taut and ready for attack.

This man, this _hunter_ , he took his prey from him.

“I'm sorry for what happened,” and there it is again, the overpowering smell of grief, “my family owes you and Derek a debt.”

A soft noise and Peter looks up to see the hunter place his gun on the ground. “Let the children go and you can take your revenge on me,” the man says and there's a high-pitched gasp coming from children’s direction.

The voices in his ears are screaming even louder now, almost deafening him.

 _Do it_ , they say, their grief Peter’s grief. _Kill him._

_Kill the hunter, kill them all._

_And when you're done, kill yourself too and come back to us._

Peter is trembling, about to lift his wolf body into a jump, to rip the man’s throat out.

He doesn't.

He howls instead, letting out all his pain and his rage. He howls and howls, as if trying to overpower the dissonant noise in his head with his own voice. He howls and shakes and trembles, until the wolf recedes and leaves, disgusted at Peter’s weakness, and all that's left is a naked, shivering man.

Curled on himself, Peter lets out an all-too-human scream, raw and aching.

He screams, his cry joining the ones in his ears until he can’t hear them anymore.

His throat aches. Peter’s scream slowly dies down.

In front of him, the hunter pockets his gun, shrugs off his jacket and takes a couple of steps toward him. The noise is loud in the sudden silence.

Slowly, the man crouches down in front of Peter.

Peter raises his head, looking into sober, clear blue eyes.

“I could kill you,” Peter rasps, more because it's true than because of any actual desire to do so. He could rip the man to pieces long before he’d have time to raise his weapon. “Just like I did with Laura,” he adds and the thought is a pang where he thought he couldn't feel anymore, the part of himself he thought he left behind, burned off by the fire.

“If you were going to kill me, you would have done so already”, the hunter says with a brazenness Peter is sure must be at least partially fake, even if the man’s heart is steady. The hunter hands him his jacket and it's such an incongruous sight Peter is left staring for a moment. “Come, it's well past the time for the children to go to bed and my apartment has a guest bedroom.”

Peter raises an eyebrow, surprised again at the man’s boldness, at the absurdity of the situation: a hunter inviting Peter into his home.

The smallest of smirks escapes Peter’s mouth.

Peter extends a hand, startled to see it's no longer a dark, clawed paw, and grabs the jacket.

Gingerly, he puts it around himself.

It smells of wolfsbane, gun oil and metal. It also smells of pain. Anger, regret, overwhelming guilt. It’s a note perfectly echoing Peter’s own state of mind and all-too-fitting for this burned husk of a place they find themselves in.

“Come,” the man says again before turning his head to mouth a few stern reprimands at the children still gathered in front of the ruins of what was once Peter’s home.

The children scramble off and Peter finds himself dazedly following Chris Argent to his car.


	3. THE DAUGHTER

When Allison is eleven her favorite aunt dies. Well, she disappears, actually, but Allison knows aunt Kate would never miss one of her birthdays, not for all the gold in the world. 

As she grows older, Allison realizes that sometimes people just go missing. Most of the time, it means they're lying dead somewhere, their bodies never to be found. 

Eleven is also when Allison’s parents split up and she and her mother move away from Beacon Hills. 

She doesn't know it will be six more years before she’d be able to see her father again. 

When she’s seventeen, Allison moves back. She's not sure how she feels about that. In a way, Beacon Hills is probably the last place where she’s been truly happy. 

Weirdly enough, Beacon Hills is also where things start to make sense again. 

From the forest ground besides a burned-down house, Allison watches her boyfriend turn into a monster and a black-shaped monster turn back into a man, showing her father mercy. 

This is how she finds out about the supernatural, about her own legacy. About her aunt. 

“Is it true?” she asks to her father afterward. “Aunt Kate… was it you?”

She watches her father bend his head, a shadow going over his eyes. 

That’s answer enough.

Oh, god. Allison can feel her eyes fill with tears. 

Of all the scenarios she ran through her head all these years... she never thought of anything like that.

“She burned the Hale house,” her father says. They’re standing on the front porch of his apartment and Allison is acutely aware who -what- is inside.

“She killed everyone,” her father continues, “even the children, even the humans.” 

He swallows. 

“ _Almost_ everyone,” he corrects himself.

Allison takes a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

Then, she watches her father reach inside his jacket and take out a thin chain with a large pendent.

The necklace catches the light.

“She was a monster in the end,” he says, his voice down to almost a whisper. “She had to be stopped.”

Her father takes one of her hands and gently deposits the necklace into her palm. “But... she hadn't always been like that. When she was younger... You remind me very much of her. This- this should belong to you.”

Allison closes her fingers around the silver pendant, closes her eyes. She doesn’t need to look to know what it is. She can recognize it by touch alone: the wolf and the arrows. Her aunt’s necklace. And her father had been carrying it with him all this time. 

“I’m sorry,” her father says, “I’m sorry I wasn't there for you. I- I would have taken you away with me. I would have.”

Allison looks up at the words, tears blurring her vision. 

“I’m sorry you had to find out about this world like this, I wish- I wish you could have kept your ignorance a little while longer.”

Allison thinks of Scott, shapes her lips into a smile. 

“It’s okay,” she simply says. 

A heartbeat passes, two. 

“Can you- can you teach me?” she asks, her fingers still closed around the pendant. “I won't tell,” she adds. “Teach me. About us. About you.”

Her father just looks at her for a moment, his eyes almost assessing, then nods, a small grimace on his face, like he hates the need for subterfuge but he’s still relieved she’d been the one to bring the subject up. 

On the way home, Allison hides the necklace inside her shirt. 


	4. PACK

“There's an Alpha pack in town,” Chris says as he opens the door to his apartment. “Derek needs your help.”

It’s still early and he half expects to find the dark, massive shape of Peter’s wolf form lying on the sofa, or pawing restlessly through the apartment. Sometimes, losing himself into the wolf seems to be the only thing able to calm Peter’s mind, to keep the nightmares at bay.

Instead, he finds a very human Peter. He’s standing by the window, looking out.

“Where was he when I needed his?” Peter asks, his eyes are still fixed on the street outside, a corner of his mouth turned into an unhappy smile.

And then, after a while: “He won't accept it,”

“You still have to do the best you can to protect him,” Chris says, thinking of Allison.

Peter turns to look at him for a long moment.

“What do you need me to do?”

 

* * *

 

Chris suppresses a cry as he impacts the wall with tremendous force, losing his hold on the gun.

Around him, most of the Alpha pack is dead, the Darach too.

Only Peter is still standing. And Deucalion, holding a beaten up Derek by the neck.

Deucalion’s grip is more for effect that anything else: his spearheaded cane is pierced into Derek’s side, the tip embedded deep into the floor, effectively making any movement impossible on Derek's part.

It’s a gruesome image.

 _Where's Allison_ , Chris thinks frantically.

“I’ll kill him,” Deucalion warns Peter, tightening his grip on Derek, who’s breathing laboriously, his face contorted in pain.

“He’s not part of my pack,” Peter replies. “Technically.”

Peter’s voice is calm on the surface, mocking even.

“If he isn’t, then you won't mind me doing it,” Deucalion retorts.

From his angled position, Chris watches Peter tilt his head, almost as if he’s evaluating the situation. “Well, I may be a monster but he’s still the only surviving member of my family. That would be a bit much, don't you think?”

Deucalion is pressing his lips together in a tight grimace now and Peter shifts minutely on his feet, letting his stance become threatening.

“But, oh, I am a very angry man these days,” he continues. “And for all that I want to save my nephew, I also really, really want to gouge you open and play with your entrails.”

Peter’s teeth are bared now and his eyes have become bright red, to match Deucalion.

Then, from behind a corner, another gleaming of werewolf eyes. _Scott_.

“So kill him or don’t,” Peter says, back to his old unaffected tone, and Chris stretches an arm to retrieve his weapon, his shoulder screaming in pain. “It doesn't really matter. I can guarantee either way you won't come out of this alive.”

Chris takes hold of his gun, aims it at Deucalion’s head.

Before he can shoot, an arrow (Allison’s arrow, he thinks with relief) pierces Deucalion’s left shoulder, overbalancing him just as Scott jumps at him from behind. It's enough for the man to let go of Derek and for Peter to move to the attack, taking hold of the cane pressed into Derek’s body and forcibly taking it out. Derek screams and Peter buries the spearheaded cane deep into Deucalion’s neck, slicing him open almost from ear to ear.

“Sorry,” Peter says, a vicious smirk on his lips, “No one's joining your little murder band today. You could have saved yourself the trip.”

Sprouts of blood hit Peter in full, spraying everything with red and, for a moment, Chris isn’t at the abandoned mall any more. He’s back at the Hale House, holding the dying body of his sister.

He blinks, looks again and he sees Peter once more, his face and chest painted red like his eyes.

 

* * *

 

The pros of being the only adult in town in the know of the supernatural with a suitable living arrangement, Chris thinks wearily as he helps Derek inside, one arm across Derek’s waist to help support his weight, Derek’s own hands pressing a wadded-up shirt against his chest.

Well, except for Victoria.

No, he's not going to think about her, Chris decides. Just like he isn’t going to think about Kate.

With a _uff_ , he sits Derek on Peter’s bed. Derek goes with a groan of pain.

Peter’s bloody hand is already on Derek, the veins on his arms turning black.

Under the pain in his eyes, Derek is wearing a stunned expression, like he’s wondering why he’s letting his uncle take care of him. Or like he’s replaying the last hours’ events and failing to come up with an acceptable explanation.

Chris leaves them to it and returns to the hallway, where little Ally -god, she's all grown up now, she looks so much like Kate at her age- is pressing a kiss to Scott McCall’s mouth.

They break apart, cheeks red.

“Ah, Mr Argent-” Scott stammers embarrassed.

So, that's how it is then, Chris thinks. Well, it's not like he’s any position to tell Ally off for socializing with werewolves. Or anyone else, really. He waves them off with a sigh and heads toward the bathroom to retrieve his first aid kit.

God, he’s so tired and his shoulder is pulsing in agony.

He roots around for some painkillers, swallows them dry.

Thinking back of the bloodied footprints running through his house, of the blood on Peter’s bed, he takes some towels too and fills a basin with tepid water.

Peter, absolutely caked with blood. Deucalion’s blood, his head almost severed from the rest of his body. He’s not part of my pack, Peter said. Kate-

 _No-_ Chris forcibly stops himself. He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

Trying not to feel too old, or damaged.

 

* * *

 

Chris wakes up to a dark figure silhouetted by the door of his room.

His hand is halfway to the gun he keeps on the bedside table when he notices the wolf snoring unconcerned at the foot of his bed and his mind catches up with what happened last night.

“Derek,” he chastises, his voice rough with sleep. “Get back to bed.”

He watches the shadow retreat, his steps slow and halting.

Chris follows his own advice and burrows back into the covers. The huge dark shape that is Peter twitches and shifts, curling up into a ball by Chris’ knees.

He sleeps.

 

* * *

 

As they get out of the grocery store, Chris can’t help mentally checking one more time if they got enough food to feed three werewolves (one of which a teenager and the other barely out if his teens and still recovering from Deucalion’s wounds), two human teenagers (one of which Scott’s friend Stiles) and Chris himself.

He heads to his SUV, opens the rear door. A hiss escapes him, his shoulder pulsing with pain.

“Allow me,” a deep, smooth voice says from behind him. With a small smirk, Peter takes the bags from Chris’ hand, loading them up into the car.

“I’m not an invalid,” Chris feels compelled to say.

“I didn't say that,” Peter replies, inclining his head, one eyebrow raised. “Still, you should let that shoulder recover.”

“Scott says he’s going to be a little late coming back from Deaton,” Allison turns around to look at them, her phone still pressed to her ear, and for a moment Chris is hit by how ordinary this is. Buying groceries, a family errand. It’s something he hasn't done ever since Kate-

Peter hauls up the last parcel before closing the car door. This must feel very familiar to him too, Chris thinks.

He sighs. Enough thinking of the past.

He opens the driver's side door, mentally readying himself to the thought of going back to Derek and Stiles and their constant bickering.

“I already killed one niece this year, I don't want to be forced to kill Derek as well,” Peter had said with dark humor as he’d joined Chris and Allison’s shopping expedition. No wonder.

As if summoned by Chris’ earlier wistful thoughts, a van stops next to them. Chris watches a familiar red-headed woman climb out of it. Victoria.

“Allison,” she says, her voice unyielding, “come with me, we're going home.”

Her pale green eyes are still startling, Chris thinks.

“Mom!” Allison exclaims in protest. “You can't-”

Chris braces himself, getting up in front of his daughter. “Victoria,” he says, trying to keep his tone reasonable, “there's no need-”

“Of course there is,” she says, coming closer, “If this is how you keep _our daughter_ safe-”

Victoria takes one more step forward, her lacquered fingers about to push Chris, move him out of the way, when a hand sinks into her forearm, blocking her. Chris looks up to see Peter, his teeth bared. By the way Victoria is wincing, Chris guesses those aren't Peter’s human nails.

“I appreciate that you’re Allison’s mother,” Peter his saying, his voice calm, deadly cold, “but there's no need to cause a scene, don't you think?”

“Peter!” Chris hisses just as another voice interrupts them: “Gentlemen, is there a problem?”

Chris turns to see Sheriff Stilinski.

_Fuck._

A flash of red in Peter’s eyes, there and gone. “No problem here, Sheriff,” he says letting go of Victoria, eyes still fixed on her.

The Sheriff nods severely.

“ _Good_ ,” he says with a warning tone.

Peter’s eyes. Chris doubts the Sheriff noticed anything, or that he thought anything more of it than a trick of the light. Still, he’s relieved to see Stilinski go. Less so of seeing his daughter leave with her mother.

 

* * *

 

The ride back is silent, heavy with the absence of Allison’s ready smile and easy warmth.

After half a decade away it took him only the space of a few days to take her presence for granted again.

You fool, Chris thinks to himself with a sigh.

He turns his eyes to the right.

On the front seat, arms tightly crossed in front of himself, Peter is radiating barely restrained tension.

In the twilight light, he looks strikingly beautiful.

The thought should come as a shock to Chris.

Somehow, it doesn't.

He thinks of Peter, holding himself dangerously still and staring into Victoria’s eyes. Wholly human, except for the hand biting into Victoria’s skin. The thought of that perfect control brings a shiver down Chris’ spine.

Peter, putting himself between Chris and another hunter. Despite everything, Kate, Laura, all the blood between them and the debt Chris will always owe the man.

Peter, spending his nights by the foot of Chris’ bed.

“You're not a monster,” Chris finds himself saying, breaking the silence.

Which is actually _not_ what he wanted to say at all.

It's true nonetheless.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Chris watches Peter turn toward him, the rigidness of his spine slowly unbending.

Good enough, Chris thinks.

Peter doesn't inquire on what brought this on, just raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“I’m a hunter,” Chris simply says, “I should know.“

A corner of Peter’s mouth turns up just a fraction. He still doesn't speak but the silence has become strangely comfortable now.

Chris finds himself half smiling back.

Maybe this is what the two of them have been headed toward all along, Chris thinks.

Or maybe… maybe it’s all just wishful thinking, the delusion of a passing moment.

In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t really matter.

Whatever they are to each other, it seems like Chris’ life is now (and will always be) indelibly intertwined to Peter’s.


	5. KNIFE

It’s her husband’s fault. Harboring an Alpha, letting their daughter near him and the McCall boy. Werewolves.

Her own fault too, for letting her daughter walk around unaware, coddling her rather than preparing her to the dangers of the world.

No, she thinks, she let Allison keep her childhood ignorance far too long.

Victoria thinks of Peter Hale digging his claws into her own forearm, looking at her with that hideous smirk of his. She thinks of her sister-in-law. The Hales dead and Kate disappearing that same night, the odd way her husband had behaved after.

Gerald was right, Chris proved himself too weak to be a hunter, too sentimental.

So Victoria took her daughter, her heir, away from him.

And now…

She thinks of the proprietary way Peter Hale behaved at the grocery store.

It never occurred to her that this may have been the reason behind it all. Her husband, preferring to bed those beasts. Preferring them to his own wife.

It’s sickening.

Victoria is an Argent. At Gerard’s death she is going to take his place at the lead of the family and Allison’s daughters and sons after her.

It is time, she thinks, time to take matters into her own hands. All those suspicious murders, this is what she came back for.

The code won't stop her this time.

She takes her shotgun and her wolfsbane bullets. She’ll start with the boy.

 

* * *

 

Victoria aims her weapon and the boy runs, raises his hands as if to placate her: “Please, Mrs Argent, I don't want to hurt you!” His eyes are glowing an unnatural gold. But the boy keeps retreating, dodging her shots.

 _Weak_ , she thinks with a smile.

“Don't beg,” she says, a savage feeling in her chest. She shots again. “ _Run._ ”

 

* * *

 

It's Peter Hale again. This time, he’s holding her by both arms, sinking his teeth into her neck.

Victoria screams.


	6. THE MESSAGE

Allison finds her mother dead in her room, a pool of blood around her.

On the bedside table, the knife she used to slice her own throat lies abandoned next to a white envelope. There’s Allison’s name on it.

 

* * *

 

“I want to kill him,” Allison says to grandpa Gerald after the funeral.

“We will,” he replies, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll show you how.”

 

* * *

 

The next time she sees Scott, she shoots her arrows at him. Him and Derek.

She can't get her mother’s message out of her mind, the hasty writing, the bloody smudge over the top right corner of the envelope.

“Allison,” Scott says, “Allison, _please_. They took your dad! We need to rescue him!”

It was Peter Hale, the message said. It was-


	7. A DEAL

They were waiting for him.

Arms, grabbing Chris from the side as soon as he opens the apartment door. Three, four more figures pressing closer.

Chris pushes his elbow into the first attacker’s stomach, twisting out of his grip. He lands a hard kick, driving another assailant against a table. The man’s head collides with the table corner with a satisfying thud, but the other two are already on him.

Chris gets his gun out but a pair of hands lock on his hand before he can use it, pushing it against the wall, holding it there.

He tries a kick to the kneecap but the man moves and his foot ends against the wall.

A sweet-smelling cloth is pressed to his mouth and Chris struggles, tries to hold his breath, to free himself. Viciously, he thrusts the fingers of his free hand into the eye of the man behind him.

A scream of pain.

Someone punches him in the gut, then a blow to the head.

The world goes black.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up to darkness. His head is pulsing with pain and he can’t move, can’t breathe, there’s something over his head, there’s- A sharp tug jerks his head back. A hood, being removed. Chris blinks, eyes watering from the sudden light. He tries to move and realizes that his arms and legs are tied down. He’s tied to a chair, in the middle of a wide, open room that smells of mold and dust.

Automatically, he pushes against the bonds, checking if the ropes have a bit of give.

A hand grabs Chris by the hair, yanking his head back. His father is looking down at him.

“Be still,” he commands, “our guests are about to arrive.”

His father smiles, the same deranged smile Kate used to wear, and Chris could free himself, he could, if his head wasn’t spinning ( _concussion_ , a dispassionate part of himself realizes) and if the man who tied him to the chair wasn’t the one who taught him how to escape his bonds in the first place.

Above him, Gerald is shaking his head, as if reading his thoughts. “Always a disappointment,” he says.

His father turns around then, letting go of Chris, looking toward the other side of the room. “But I guess there's no accounting for taste,” he says with a sneer and there is Peter, coming out of the door, out of the shadows.

 _No_ , Chris thinks, panic raising to his chest.

Gerald has set the pieces and now Chris is watching the scene unfold in front of him, helpless to do anything about it.

“Boys,” his father says, “get out, I need to talk alone with Mr. Hale.”

A brief moment of hesitation, then Gerald’s men clear out, leaving them alone in the room.

Silence hangs in the air for a second and Chris is perfectly able to hear the soft click of a gun being cocked. An instant later, he feels the cold weight of the barrel pressed against his temple.

_Fuck._

“Stop!” Allison’s voice. Instinctively, Chris tries to turn to look. _Allison!_

“What are you _doing_?” she asks, coming in from another door, Derek and Scott trailing behind her.

“Ally,” he tries to says, his tongue tick and unresponsive inside his own mouth. “I’m exploiting a weakness, child,” Gerald says, his tone conversational, unperturbed. The gun against Chris’ temple doesn't waver. “You see, Mr Hale could have killed your mother. He didn’t.”

Allison takes a step toward them and Gerald shakes his head once, driving the gun against Chris’ temple with more force.

Chris winces.

“Don’t move, my dear,” Gerald says to her, the threat clear in his voice.

“Don’t!” Allison exclaims. She jerks forward, but Scott holds her back by the arm.

Gerald nods once, satisfied, then slowly turns back to Peter. “You bit her out of kindness,” his father continues with a snort. “Because of my whore son and his daughter.”

Peter eyes are glowing now. He’s holding himself perfectly still, a beast poised for attack.

“Now, I’ll make you a deal, a simple one: if you want my son back you’ll bite me too.”

What-

Red eyes narrowed, Peter inclines his head, sniffing once.

“Cancer,” he observes, his tone deceptively flat, “terminal stadium.”

A grimace of confirmation from Gerard. He nods, almost mocking. “You’re right, of course. Now, do we have a-”

Chris makes himself laugh, it comes out as a sputtering, hoarse sound.

Gerald turns to look at him.

“You know,” Chris says, an almost delirious feeling running through him. “It was me,” he tries. “It was me who killed Kate. You- you made her into a monster. Just like yourself.”

Chris watches his father’s eyes narrow with fury. Then, a _uff_ of pain and Allison is tackling Gerald to the ground, the gun going skittering over the floor.

In a flash, Peter is over Gerald too, black fur and bright red eyes. Chris hears a muffled-out scream, then there’s only silence.

The same trick they used against Deucalion, some part of Chris realizes.

God. He almost wants to laugh. His father is dead and Chris is thinking about _tactics._

He sighs, lets himself slump back on the chair, exhaustion and relief flooding through him.

He watches Ally slump on the ground too, eyes wide. Scott, kneeling by her side. There's a bloody stain on Scott’s shoulder, he notices.

A few feet from them, Peter’s wolf form is still standing over Gerald’s still body, panting hoarsely.

 _It’s over_ , Chris thinks dully.

Except... Scott starts to slowly edge away from Peter, and Allison with him.

Chris straightens up. He watches Derek circle the scene, bringing himself between the two teenagers and his uncle.

“Uncle Peter,” Derek says, his tone placating. “It’s over.”

 _Uncle Peter_. Distantly, Chris realizes that he's never heard Derek call Peter by that name before.

Derek’s words are met by a low, savage growl.

The noise reverberates against the throbbing pain over Chris’ eyes, at his temples, making the hair on his arms stand up.

An exhale escapes Chris’ lips. It echoes like a gunshot in the now silent room.

Peter’s eyes turn on him. Chris can see nothing of the man behind them, only the fury of the wolf.

Suddenly, his mind is brought back to that night at the Hale house.

No, this isn't at all like what happened with Deucalion, he thinks.

“Peter,” Chris says without thinking.

And then, he extends one of his bound hands in Peter’s direction. Fingers stretched, palm up. A quiet, deliberate ‘come closer’ motion.

Peter does. Chris watches Allison tense up, hand reaching for her bow. Chris silently shakes his head, eyes pleading her not to move.

The wolf pads forward, until he's standing in front of him. From his sitting position, they’re almost at eye level.

Chris can see the shining wetness around the wolf’s mouth. Gerald’s blood.

Slowly, Chris moves his head, baring his neck at him. Just like that night, when he placed his gun on the ground.

 _We're even now_ , a part of himself can’t help but think, almost hysterically. Chris only has a single family member left now, just like Peter.

 _I’m not here to hurt you_ , Chris thinks, holding the wolf’s gaze. _I never would. Are you going to hurt **me**?_

The wolf comes closer and closer still. Then stops, presses his wet muzzle against Chris’ neck.

Chris doesn't move, doesn't breathe.

A shuffling sound: the wolf inhaling deeply.

Then, in the space of a breath, the wolf is gone and in its place there’s a very naked Peter.

His eyes are still red, his mouth and most of his face painted with the blood of Chris' father. The man looks utterly feral. ( _Beautiful_ , Chris thinks.)

Yet, the wildness in his gaze is gone.

Chris knows he is in no danger from him.


	8. THE WORDS

Allison watches Peter Hale look at her father and carefully turn his human nails back into claws, using them to cut the ropes around her father’s wrists.

She watches her father rub the angry marks on his skin, watches him bring a hand to the nape of Peter Hale’s neck, drawing him close.

Peter lets himself be moved.

They stay like that, her father still sitting on the chair, an arm around Peter’s shoulders, and Peter kneeling in front of him as if in supplication, his forehead pressed against her father’s shoulder, covered only in his bare skin.

He doesn't look much like an Alpha werewolf now, he looks… vulnerable.

Allison watches her father and Peter embrace and feels her stomach rebel at the sight.

Hands shaking, she raises her bow, reaches for an arrow.

Scott stops her, grabs her wrist.

She looks up at him.

“It was _Peter_ ,” she says, tasting bile at the back of her throat. “She- she left me a note.”

Her voice is trembling and she hates it.

“No, it wasn't,” Scott replies, his eyes too warm and kind. “Your mom was- Peter was protecting _me_.”

Allison shakes her head, shifting her position, trying to break free of Scott’s hold. “Don't,” she says.

“She wanted to kill me,” Scott continues, his tone earnest. “Peter stopped her.”

In the distance, she hears her father let out a worn-out groan.

“Let’s- let's go home,” he says, voice rough and weary.

Allison lowers her bow.

 

* * *

 

The apartment door is hanging open. Allison pushes it aside, helping her father in.

Her eyes run over the disaster that is the living room. There's a dead man on the floor, his head smashed, and broken, overthrown furniture everywhere. On the walls, Gerald’s bloodied message looks like something out of a horror movie.

She reaches her father’s bedroom, helps him sit on the bed.

She can’t seem to tone down her awareness of Peter, following his movements out of the corner of her eyes.

She watches him and Derek drag out the dead body, the apartment door closing behind them.

She takes a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

Allison turns toward her father, says what she has to say.

“He- he used me to get to Derek and Scott, to get you alone,” she says. “I-”

She stops, swallows.

It’s not an apology, not precisely. There’s still far too much anger rolling around her stomach.

“Allison,” her father says. “It’s okay, I’m- I’m so glad you're okay.”

Allison snorts, looking away.

She’s _not_ okay.

Her mother is dead and so is her grandfather. She watched Peter rip him apart. She _helped_ him.

Yes, her grandfather wasn’t a good man, she knows that now. What difference does that make?

On impulse, Allison takes her aunt’s pendant out of her shirt, turns it into her hand. Grief and pain and hopeless rage mount inside her, no outlet for them.

She never thought Gerald-

She wants to scream, she wants-

“She left me,” Allison finds herself saying, voice faltering. “She _chose_ to die, she left me alone.”

“You’re not alone, Princess.” Her father’s touch, his hand cupping her cheek, her hair. “You have _me_. There will always be a place for you here, _always_.”

She snorts.

“I’m not a _Princess_ ,” Allison protests, traitorous tears coming out of her eyes. “Not a little girl any more.”

You don't know me, she wants to say.

You weren't there when I was growing up.

It’s an unjust thought, some part of herself realizes, yet she can't help it.

She falls to her knees, closes her left hand into a fist and beats it against her father’s chest. Once, twice.

She’s so angry. At her mother. At everybody else. Even at herself. If she'd known-

Her father’s hand moves to gently catch her fist, stopping her. The movement exposes the red marks on his wrist.

She wants to scream. She breaks into tears instead, deep, ugly sobs. An outburst that once put in motion can't seem to be stopped. Or maybe she just doesn't want to.

“How- how can you love me?” she blurts out, her vision blurry, wiping her nose with the end of her sleeve, just like a kid would, the kid she denied to be.

In her father's arms, she lets herself cry all the tears she didn't allow herself to shed before.

“Maybe, you’re right,” she croaks out, voice broken with sobs. “Maybe I _am_ like her.” Like _Kate_.

Scott’s t-shirt, torn and bloody where her own arrow had nicked him.

She was aiming at his chest. She would have hit her target if Scott hadn't moved away at the very last moment.

“Of course you’re not,” her father says, his voice steady and sure.

“It’s okay,” he says again, words turning into a slow litany. “It's okay. Someone you love was taken away from you. It's okay to feel sad. It’s okay to feel angry.”

_Someone you love was taken away from you._ She wonders if her father is thinking of Peter.

She can’t help to. Can’t seem to stop, really.

The way Peter acted earlier, at the warehouse… she wonders if her father knows that he’s Peter’s anchor.

Just like she is (was?) Scott’s.

God, _Scott_.

She almost wants to ask, what the deal is, what her father and Peter _are_ to each other. But, at the same time, she finds she doesn’t really want to know.

She stays like that, letting her father hold her, his hand running through her hair in a calming, comforting motion, until the crying quiets down and then finally stops.

Still in the circle of her father’s arms, she takes a breath, takes a moment to collect herself.

She left a wet patch on her father’s shirt. Eyes gritty and heavy, tear tracks on her cheeks, she feels dead tired, like she hadn't slept for days. But her voice is clear and steady. "Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-mêmes," she says, raising her chin high.

This is Allison Argent, starting over.

This time, she’s going to get it right. She’s not going to be like Gerald, like Kate.

This is her, moving on.

Her father smiles, nods: "We protect those who can't protect themselves."

His words sound like a promise.


	9. NIGHT

Chris wakes up.

He doesn't know what stirred him at first. He doesn't need to use the bathroom and the room is dark and quiet and he is pleasantly warm under the covers. Allison is (ostensibly) sleeping at Lydia's, he recalls, and Derek is wherever he goes when he’s not using Chris’ couch.

He shifts under the covers, trying to find a more comfortable position and to get back to sleep. Except, a strange weight seems to be hampering his movements.

Chris blinks and finally realizes what woke him up: the familiar shape of Peter’s wolf form isn’t at the foot of the bed where it should be, in its place there's a very human, very warm, probably (definitely) naked Peter, who’s holding him in his arms through the covers.

The man doesn't stir, his chest rising and falling to the slow rhythm of sleep and Chris finds himself short for breath. Peter must have shifted unconsciously during the night. Something about the kind of trust squeezes almost painfully at Chris’ chest.

And where Chris waking up and turning around didn't wake up Peter, his forced stillness of that moment does. In the feeble light coming from the window Chris can see Peter slowly opening his eyes.

The man blinks, lifting his head to stare at Chris in apparent confusion, as if wondering what is Chris doing awake and seemingly unconcerned about his own naked body draped over Chris’, thin covers the only barrier between them.

Chris can't resist. He extends a hand, presses it against Peter’s cheek.

The skin is soft and smooth, with barely any hint of stubble, where he remembers it puckered and scarred with burns.

Chris leans over, presses a kiss over Peter’s mouth.

It’s a soft, closed-mouth kiss, just lips pressing over lips.

And Peter… Peter leans in and kisses him back and the grip around Chris’ heart seems to loosen, all the things that went unspoken between them suddenly in the open and impossible to ignore or take back.

In the dark quiet room, the kiss soon grows frantic and heated: lips, teeth and tongue and Peter’s mouth tastes like the mouth of someone who just woke up, and so does Chris’ for that matter, and neither of them seems to care, too intent, too caught in the intimacy of the act, of the moment they are sharing.

Chris finds himself lost in it, in the warmth of Peter’s mouth, the texture of his lips. And, at the same time, he can't help being acutely aware of Peter’s body pressed against his own over the covers, those long limbs, the solid weight of him.

Chris pulls the covers aside, afraid the other man could get cold lying naked like that, with no fur to shelter him. He moves his hand to the nape of Peter’s neck, gently drawing him down and under them.

Peter’s skin is smooth and fever-hot under his fingers.

Of course, Chris mentally berates himself, werewolves run hotter than human.

He lets go of Peter’s mouth long enough to speak. “Get in,” he says anyway.

Peter smiles, a flash of white teeth in the dark.

The press of Peter’s body against the thin layer of his own pajamas is tantalizingly sensual. And then, even that last barrier is removed (Peter's wide hands sliding under his waistband, helping him get rid of his pants, his t-shirt) and they’re skin to skin, Peter’s scorching heat against Chris’ own body, mouths breathing each other's breaths.

Chest pressed against Peter’s warm chest, Peter’s hands on his hips, every touch leaves Chris tingling, dazed, and Chris hasn't done this in a very long time, let alone with a man. The sensation leaves him floundering for a second.

“I-” he says, taking his mouth off Peter for a moment, trying to articulate his feelings, the breathtaking hotness and the deep, alienating weirdness of Peter’s cock pressed against him.

As he if sensing his hesitation, Peter stops. He just… stops moving entirely.

And then, all at once, he lifts up, shifting until he’s straddling Chris, naked ass against Chris’ groin, white teeth gleaming in the dimness of the room.

Oh, god.

“Fuck me, Christopher,” Peter says, a wicked glint in his eyes and a smile in his voice that soon turns into full laughter, an easy and carefree outburst of sound.

Chris realizes he’s never really seen the other man laugh.

He feels again that familiar squeeze on his chest, arousal pooling to his groin, breath coming out short.

 _Beautiful_ , Chris thinks. _Mine._

He doesn’t think, grabs Peter by the waist and rolls him on his back, until Chris is lying between Peter’s open legs, Chris’ hands splayed over the back of the other man’s thighs and the smattering of soft hair covering them, his own cock nudging between Peter’s ass cheeks.

_Fuck._

Even in the dimness of the room Chris can see that Peter has his head thrown back, neck exposed.

Chris’ heart is thundering in his chest.

“Christopher.” His name again, Peter’s voice going deep and deliberate and just a little sly, “Come on. Fuck. Me,” he repeats.

Chris bites down on his lips, hard, desperately trying to keep still.

Peter’s fingers are tracing heedless patterns on Chris’ biceps, as if calming a spooked horse. Slowly, they raise up over Chris’ shoulders, his neck, finally settling on his mouth, thumb tracing his lower lip, pressing just enough to free it from Chris’ teeth.

Peter raises up, bending almost in two really, until his mouth is joining his fingers into a deep, languid kiss.

Let go, the kiss says. It’s okay.

The noise of the blood rushing to Chris’ ears is deafening him.

“I don't-” Chris swallows, lips following Peter’s even as they break apart, taken aback and yet desperately aroused. By the need he heard in Peter’s voice, by the way he’s lying in his arms, pliant and sweet and eager.

God. Earlier, when Chris reached out for that kiss he never thought- never thought about the actual mechanics of this or anything like that. But now he wants it so badly he can feel himself burning, heat pooling to his groin, raising through his chest, his cheeks.

And yet…

Chris lets out a frustrated groan.

“Is this- is this something that you do?” he asks. With men, he means, unconsciously pressing just a little against Peter’s ass to clarify his meaning and feeling, sounding just like a teenager, unable to hold back the awe and nervousness in his voice.

“Not really, no,” Peter replies with another small laugh and a twitch of his eyebrow. The unspoken “but I want to, I want _you_ to” hanging in the air between them, burning and fizzing inside Chris, sucking away at the air in his lungs, until his every conscious thought has been turned into pure need.

And, _god_ , staying pressed against Peter and not moving, not _pushing_ is torture enough but hearing him say these things-

“I don't… don’t have condoms,” Chris finds himself saying. He’s shaking his head, desperately trying to clear his fogged mind, “or- we need-”

“Werewolf,” Peter reminds him, his tone matter of fact and yes, _of course_. Peter can't catch anything, or pass it on.

“I don't want to hurt you,” Chris says at last. He really doesn't. And he’s no expert but he’s sure they need _something_.

“You won't,” Peter says with a smirk and moves his hands back on Chris’s shoulders, planting human nails against his skin, dragging him forward.

“Do you need a written invitation?”

Chris smiles.

They’re sharing another kiss when Chris finally moves his hips, pushing into Peter. Slowly, carefully.

Peter’s hands tighten against Chris’ shoulders and Chris stops a moment, makes himself wait when all he wants is to push, to lose himself into Peter.

He breathes, heart thundering in his chest.

In the dim light of the window, Chris looks into Peter’s eyes and his expression isn't one of pain. He looks… overwhelmed almost.

“Come on,” Peter urges still, eyes wild, and Chris obliges, until the entirety of Chris’ cock is fitted inside him and both men are left panting, shaking.

Peter takes a breath then presses his mouth against Chris one more time, in a frantic motion that’s half bite, half kiss.

“Do it,” Peter says and he sounds frantic, just out of breath as Chris is. “Come on.” And he’s moving against Chris’ first hesitant pushes, shifting his hips to reach the perfect angle, muscles straining, voice shaking with pleasure, until he’s basically doing all the work by himself.

God.

Chris gets with the program.

Orgasm catches him not long after, vision blurring, and Chris finds himself lying by Peter’s side an indefinite amount of time later without recalling precisely how he’s moved. Did he fall asleep?

In the soft light of the bedside table lamp, he looks up to see Peter wiping streaks of come off his stomach and chest.

Chris looks at him, mesmerized by the movement of Peter’s hand, the sparse hair on his stomach.

A few white drops landed on his collarbone too.

Hell.

He shifts minutely, pressing a small kiss on Peter’s shoulder, the part of him that's closer, and just enjoys the quietness of the moment, the intimacy of sharing the warmth of the bed afterward, his legs still half intertwined with Peter’s.

What did I do to deserve this, he wonders.

There are parallel scratch marks over the headboard behind Peter’s shoulders, he notices.

Chris swallows, mouth dry at the thought of having broken through Peter’s control like that.

He finds himself snorting then, grateful Peter had the presence of mind to take his hands off Chris’ shoulders. Though he doesn’t really look forward his conversation with Ally the next time she’ll come in.

Peter moves, presses a kiss on his lips interrupting his nebulous thoughts.

“Sleep,” Peter says, voice rough, shifting closer until he’s burying his nose in the crook of Chris’ neck, one arm thrown over Chris’ chest.

Chris rearranges his limbs until he has his hand buried in Peter’s hair and obligingly closes his eyes, feeling very decadent, going to sleep like that, naked in the arms of his lover. Decadent and surprisingly serene. Fulfilled, like all the broken pieces that make the man that is Chris Argent had been magically glued back together for a moment, back in the shape he was meant to be all along.


	10. FORGIVENESS

The sky is darkening already, the pale silhouette of the moon becoming visible on the horizon.

The forest is silent and the House is peaceful too, the stench of smoke gone.

Maybe long gone, Peter thinks. Maybe it had always been in his head.

On the ground, the small patch of land where Derek buried Laura is covered in green grass. Peter stares at the grass, at the purple wolfsbane flowers carefully planted amid it.

He takes a long breath, lets the quiet wash over him.

Then, a rustling sound from behind makes him turn his head.

It’s Derek, coming out of the treeline, coming to stand by his side.

They stand like that for a long while, shoulders almost brushing.

“I slept with Kate,” his nephew says, breaking the silence. “I thought I loved her.”

Peter doesn’t move, doesn’t think, doesn’t breath almost.

“I still hate you,” Derek continues in a flat tone, “for what you did to Laura. I don't care if you went insane or what.”

It’s an uncharacteristic outburst of words from someone usually so quiet, Peter thinks, feeling weirdly detached, hot and cold at the same time.

Yes, he can picture exactly how it all went. A foolish boy and a woman who used him to get to the rest of them.

Peter turns his head to look at his nephew, at the confused mix of anger, pain and regret warring on his face. The boy -the man- is standing perfectly still, as if waiting for Peter to do something, as if holding himself ready for a fight.

Peter can hear himself growling. If it's a fight Derek wants, Peter is ready to give it to him.

Before he knows it, he’s launching himself at his nephew, knocking a snarling Derek on the ground, his own claws around Derek’s neck.

Just like it happened with Laura, he thinks.

And for a moment memory and reality mix themselves and Peter thinks he killed Derek too, tore him apart right there, right next to the place where his sister lies.

He can almost hear them again. The voices, clouding his vision, his thoughts.

It was him, he thinks. Stupid, foolish boy, he did this, he took them away from me.

And then, the loud ringing of a phone.

Peter blinks at the surreal sound.

Somehow, the world comes back to focus and Peter realizes that is nephew is still very much alive under him, a trembling of fear in his eyes.

Frozen mid-motion, Derek and Peter stay like that, Derek on the ground and Peter on his hands and knees over him, looking at each other.

The sound goes on. Somehow, it seems to become angrier the more it goes unanswered.

It makes Peter want to laugh almost, dispelling the dark thoughts that have taken over his mind.

Talia’s children, he thinks. Lying together by the ground of their burned-out family home. He can't do this.

He lets go of his nephew, gets up.

Derek's wide eyes follow his movements.

“Pick up” Peter says, raising a sardonic eyebrow.

Lying on the ground, eyes still linked to Peter, Derek pats his pockets and comes up with a battered cell phone. Mechanically, he answers it.

Stiles’ tinny voice comes out of it. In the background, Peter can hear Scott’s voice too, and Allison’s and...

Chris’ breathing, his steady heartbeat. Almost unconsciously, Peter zeroes on that sound, lets it become a talisman of sort, sheltering Peter from the madness he was once trapped into.

Chris Argent. Peter has been with plenty of women, men and in-between before losing years to sleep but he never let anyone- well he never let anyone get under his skin like he did with Christopher. If he concentrates enough, he can still feel the touch of Chris’ hands, his mouth.

Suddenly, Peter misses him, so intensely it's almost physical pain.

Peter takes a deep breath, lets Stiles’ voice wash over him, heard but not understood.

Another breath and then one more.

Slowly, Peter extends a hand, takes the phone out of Derek’s unresisting grip.

_Get up_ , he signals to Derek with a jerk of his head.

“-to buy stuff for the new apartment,” Stiles is saying, his tone increasingly upset, “Dude, are you there?”

“Stiles,” Peter says, watching Derek get back on his feet, his clothes soiled now.

He hears a squeaky sound in return. And a strangled “ _Peter!_ ”

“We’ll meet you there,” he says, short and to the point, and hangs up.

He throws the phone back at Derek, whose eyebrows are furrowed into a half angry, half confused expression.

“ _Why_?” his nephew asks.

Peter shrugs, trying to find an answer.

“Your fault” Peter says after a while, affecting an almost bored tone, “my fault,” he nods towards Laura’s grave, “Kate Argent’s fault,” and he can't help baring his teeth at that name. “What does it matter? What's done is done.”

They’re dead. And it will always hurt, like a bone that never settled. But Peter is still alive. And so is Derek.

“Maybe guilt helps you feel less helpless,” Peter muses. “Honestly, I don’t care. If you want to die, take care of it on your own, I won't do it for you.”

Derek's mouth opens but no word comes out of it. He looks down.

“I don't,” he says. “I don't want that.”

Peter nods.

“You better move,” he warns, turning around, “or I’m letting Stiles pick up the paint for your room. I’m thinking bright pink.”

“Yeah,” Derek says suddenly deflating, taking a few steps after Peter.

“You’re still a jerk, you know?” and there’s something about Derek’s tone. Something like relief, like the unexpected comfort of familiarity.

Peter can't help the smirk twisting the corner of his mouth.


	11. EPILOGUE

Allison takes a breath and it’s like breathing after being drowned, she coughs and her lungs spasm and everything around her is in sharp, too-bright detail.

“Allison!”

Allison looks up to find Lydia’s worried face, the dark smudge of mascara under her eyes a stark contrast against her pale skin.

“What-” Allison starts to say, trying to get up, only to realize Lydia is holding her in her arms. Holding her very tight.

Allison blinks. Two identical frowns are peering down at her.

“It worked,” Malia is saying with an awed tone, a silent Peter by her side. And, god, it’s always weird looking at them together: for all that they don’t physically resemble each other much, the way they move and think, the animal side of them, the savageness in them, they’re the same.

“You’re okay,” Lydia is whispering, “You're okay.” And there's a strange, almost manic note to her voice, like she's trying to convince herself in the first place.

Allison shakes her head, trying to clear her thoughts. There’s a smell… like petrichor and freshly cut grass. She realizes with a start that it’s coming from Malia.

Allison tries again to get up. Her limbs aren’t answering her as readily as she’d like. “This- this is weird,” she says.

She swallows. The smells, the smells are hitting her from everywhere: Lydia’s flowery perfume, the wet stench of the street and something, somewhere not far- coming closer…

“Allison, don't move,” a voice calls again and it’s Lydia, Allison realizes watching her mouth move in time with the words.

“ _What?_ ” Allison asks and now her very voice sounds strange to her ears. She brings a hand to her temple. “What happened?”

 _Where’s Scott_ , she wonders except, suddenly, she knows.

He’s with Derek. _Hunting_. Stiles too. On the trail of the creature that-

“Allison,” and Allison turns. It’s here, it’s the presence she felt before, fierce and warm and smelling of home and Allison has to shake her head once more, against thoughts and sensations that feel foreign to her, that are clashing with what she can see with her own eyes: her father kneeling on the ground and taking her in his arms, tears rolling on his cheeks.

“Baby girl,” he whispers into her hair. _Mate_ , a voice in her head tells her and Allison shakes, feeling dizzy, trying (and failing) to get out of her father’s embrace.

“Dad,” she says against her father’s chest. He’s holding her so tight it almost hurts. Just like Lydia did.

“What- what happened to me?” she asks but, somehow, she knows.

“You died,” Lydia’s voice, her tone eerily subdued. “Don’t you remember?”

Allison blinks. She does.

“Oh, god,” she says in a whisper, a hand going to her mouth in horror.

She was… she was hit. A sword. She died in Scott’s arms.

“ _Scott_ ,” she says. “I- I heard him. I felt him somehow.”

“That’s probably the spell.”

That’s Peter’s voice and Allison turns to look at him. He's standing a few feet away now, with a meditative look on his face.

“I think-” he says, “you may be experiencing some sensory overload. From me.” He moves his mouth into a half grimace, half smirk. “Should wear off in a few minutes.”

Allison can feel her eyes widen. Her father starts running his hands through her hair and she closes her eyes, enjoying the sensation. A sudden recollection hits her: draping herself on his lap, letting him stroke her fur. Only, that wasn't her, was it? That’s not one of her memories.

 _Everything is good_ , the extraneous thoughts that belong to Peter whisper in her head, _the Pack is good. Mate._

“Oh- this is- god, this is _so_ confusing.” And really awkward. She closes her eyes, tries to focus. “How? How am I still-”

“I brought you back,” Lydia says with an uncertain smile. “We,” she corrects herself looking at Peter.

_Right._

Allison turns her eyes to Peter.

The man who killed her mother (he didn’t, not really) and who so clearly cares about her father.

Still inside this weird connection, Allison finally realizes something she never did before: she and Peter are more similar than she thought.

They both went mad with grief and came up on the other side.

They both hold Chris Argent as a priority. Scott too.

Plus, he just helped Lydia bringing her back.

Maybe it’s time for her to make her peace with him.

She nods.

All at once, she feels desperately tired. She wonders how long Scott will be gone.

“Let’s go home,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, the fic is finally done! \o/
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](https://endeni.tumblr.com/) if you want! ;)
> 
> Also, a big thank you to [Dunderklumpen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dunderklumpen/pseuds/Dunderklumpen), for their encouragement and steamy picspams and for reminding me that romance and smut aren't mutually exclusive... <3


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